


wolf in the breast

by DFP



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, horny teen exorcists in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26350963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DFP/pseuds/DFP
Summary: It was so simple: Seiji wanted the loquat so Shuuichi gave it to him. Seiji wanted Shuuichi so Shuuichi gave himself. As casually as the fruit, the two interchangeable, the desires equivalent.A loquat as weighty as a heart.(a series of firsts)
Relationships: Matoba Seiji/Natori Shuuichi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48





	wolf in the breast

**Author's Note:**

> caught up on the manga, blacked out for 48hrs, bon appetit

**promise**

“That means you’re mine,” Shuuichi had said, and it was novel, at the time, to belong to someone, to be somehow both less and more than the sum of his parts.

Is it still novel when his is the only mouth he’s tasted? When he still wakes, every once and a while, and thinks of summer days sweaty, sticky with fruit juice, his hand at the bend in Shuuichi’s waist, his hand on the meat of Shuuichi’s thigh?

Seiji has long suspected that relationships among humans weaken one over time, the opposite of a bond with a youkai.

It must be a weakness. The way the rough texture of bark brings to mind a clumsy embrace under the cover of trees. The way the smell of concrete roads under a hot summer rain brings memories of other smells; the sharpness of sweat, a crisp and clean soap, the purity of his scent between his thighs.

The way spring blooms a longing under his breast, a hunger for a touch years decayed.

Hunted by a youkai, haunted by a human. Only one opens up a gaping hole between his ribs.

It must be a weakness. 

**1**

Seiji is in a foul mood. Usually, Nanase interprets his feelings for him, comments like “Don’t worry, Matoba-sama…” or “Now is not the time for jokes,” that reflect back to him the meanings behind his mood.

He’s avoiding her, now, the paper masks a convenient shield between his expression and her interpretation. He doesn’t want to know what she’ll see in him, not now.

Not in this house.

The Miharu family always brings a sick twist to Seiji’s gut. The Miharus were foolish, and cowardly, and entirely idiotic but they were Matobas, anyway, right up until they weren’t anything anymore.

Nanase thinks that the last time he was in this house was when she walked him through the building, back when he was in high school. She couldn’t be further from the truth; that this old building holds ghosts of Seiji’s own. 

Out the side door he can almost see the topmost branches of the loquat tree down the street. He can just about make out the orange blush of the ripe fruits that he saw as they drove past.

He can nearly taste the sweet juice. A memory that makes his mouth water.

As though Seiji has summoned him just with the strength of his remembrance there he is—a little wild eyed, blond hair shining in the sun, soft lips pulled into a familiar frown.

“What are you doing here?” Shuuichi asks, prickly with suspicion and Seiji experiences a momentary rush of anger so sudden, so strong, he is nearly blinded by it.

“That’s my line,” Seiji returns, as icily as possible. For an instant it’s as if he’s slapped Shuuichi, his expression startled into vulnerability, a brightness in his eyes Seiji could never forget.

It’s annoying to think that Shuuichi doesn’t remember it the way Seiji does—the sweetness of the loquat, the spill of sunshine on their backs, their fingers sticky when they touched…

It’s been so long since they’d seen each other last. Seiji used to count the days apart, as proof of his conviction or his indifference, depending on his mood. Now, it’s been so long he’s unsure. He’s burned many more bridges than just their own since they last met.

Seiji’s got enough going on right now, even without Shuuichi underfoot, but he can’t help it. He thinks of loquats and it all comes rushing back.

**kiss**

Seiji thought Shuuichi was interesting from the moment they met, and of course he did—someone with the sight, who was close to his own age, and, of course, Shuuichi looked like _that_.

They fell into an unsteady rhythm quickly enough; Seiji pushed, Shuuichi pushed back. It wasn’t long before they spent more time together than apart, Shuuichi often with a baffled, wrong-footed expression but unwilling to admit he was lost at sea.

Shuuichi was just so _reactive_ , so easy to rile up, and Seiji adored him for it. Seiji, around whom people parted like water, who longed for proof that he walked the human realm as well as the youkai—who longed for _friction_.

Still, Seiji was certain it was a completely one-sided adoration, at least until Shuuichi invites him into the old Natori storehouse, slips him in through the side gate, hustles him across the grounds like a secret.

They stand, side by side, amidst the dust and gloom, Shuuichi stiff-shouldered beside him, Seiji craning his neck to peer into the deep shelves. There’s a weight in the air, not just dust, but history strung out beneath the rafters, the shelves swollen with years of research.

“You’re the only one who comes in here?” Seiji asks, appalled at the seemingly bottomless stupidity of the Natori family. Shuuichi’s face twists sourly and he runs one finger along a shelf, cutting a line through the dust.

“Yeah,” he says, simply, though his face tells a whole story of family strife. Seiji doesn’t comment on it. He knows, better than most, the trouble blood brings.

“Will you let me read something?” Seiji asks, looking at Shuuichi through the curtain of his long bangs. Shuuichi’s eyes squint, suspicious.

“Should I not?” Shuuichi replies, rhetorically, then gestures expansively, “Go ahead, it doesn’t matter to me,”

Seiji can tell it matters very much so he snatches a scroll at random and plops down on the floor, spitting in the face of Shuuichi’s generosity. He unrolls it as Shuuichi scoffs angrily, turning away to stroll deeper into the building. Seiji watches his back through his hair, the flex and pull of his shoulders, the soft blond hair on his neck.

When Shuuichi stops and looks back at Seiji he has to pretend to be engrossed with the scroll in hand. Listening, instead, intently to the scuff of Shuuichi’s footsteps as he walks back to him. Being near him always makes Seiji prickly, puts his him on edge, as if he were permanently a step away from understanding something, the key to a puzzle just out of reach.

He scans the scroll and finds it to be a rather pedestrian account of a sealing of a water spirit, and is about to tell Shuuichi as much, some scathing remark cued up behind his teeth, when Shuuichi sits down directly in front of him, so close their knees touch, and all Seiji can do is stare at him, wordless.

Shuuichi stares back, his eyes oddly bright and intense, darting across Seiji’s face landing once, twice, on his lips. The air hangs thick between them.

“Have you ever kissed someone?” Shuuichi asks, rather abruptly. Seiji cocks his head at the older boy and considers lying.

“No,” he says, plainly. Shuuichi nods minutely, as if he expected as much. Seiji drops the scroll and wonders if he ought to be offended. He sees no reason to return the question—someone like Shuuichi, who has girls queued up to slip love letters into his locker, has surely tasted the lip gloss of many.

Abruptly, Shuuichi leans forward and presses his cheek to Seiji’s. Seiji breathes in the smell of him, sweat, soap, an earthiness, like soil. Shuuichi slides against him, the barest brush of his skin against Seiji’s cheek, like a whisper, sends a violent shiver down Seiji’s spine.

Shuuichi pulls back slowly. He didn’t kiss Seiji but he might as well have for how Seiji’s body responds. He flushes hot all over, his face glowing red. A tremor works its way up his spine to wrack his hands. Shuuichi looks at him a moment then, belatedly, begins to blush himself—his embarrassment a reflection of Seiji’s. He shifts back and Seiji knows he’s going to flee but his shaking hands form sudden fists in the front of the older boy’s uniform.

“It’s—" Seiji begins to say, but he has no idea what it is; it isn’t fine it’s _glorious_ , but he can’t very well say that. “Are you going to run, coward?” He says instead, his voice a dry rasp.

Shuuichi’s eyebrows snap down into a frown, his soft lips crumpling. Seiji finds he can breathe again.

He pulls Shuuichi in by his shirt. Just before they meet his eyes drift closed. Their lips press together, softly. Shuuichi’s hands slip into Seiji’s hair, cradle the back of his head. Shuuichi begins to move his mouth against Seiji’s, who follows his lead. A trickle of warmth pools in the pit of his stomach, an electric excitement zips across his skin.

Shuuichi presses his tongue into Seiji’s mouth and Seiji jerks back, startled. Shuuichi’s hands are still in his hair so he can only go so far. They’re both flushed, breathing too hard. Shuuichi’s eyes are bright, his pupils huge in the dim room.

“You’re the only one who comes in here?” Seiji asks, again, urgently this time. Shuuichi nods, mutely, the lizard youkai flickering at his open collar.

They both lean back in at the same time, and when their lips meet and Shuuichi’s tongue slips into Seiji’s mouth, Seiji responds in kind. There’s a hot lurching in his stomach that burns up into his chest, where his heart hammers against his ribs. Shuuichi’s mouth is hot, his tongue greedy in Seiji’s mouth, his teeth gentle against his lips.

Seiji tastes Shuuichi’s teeth, the roof of his mouth, loosens his grip in his shirt to feel the smooth planes of his chest, his shoulders. Shuuichi runs a hand, almost frantically, through Seiji’s hair, tilts his head forcefully to better lick into his mouth, and Seiji makes a small, needy sound in response.

Shuuichi’s hands slip down around Seiji’s waist, where he squeezes tight and then hauls Seiji forward, onto Shuuichi’s lap. Seiji breaks the kiss with a squeak, flushing hotly. Shuuichi doesn’t seem to notice, trailing his mouth instead down his neck. A hot stab of embarrassment floods through Seiji’s body, but it’s somehow good, too.

“Matoba…” Shuuichi says, hushed, into the crook of Seiji’s neck. A distinctly unpleasant prickle crawls down his skin and he jerks his head back. Shuuichi, in turns, straightens, looks up into his face with an unusually calm expression. Seiji stares down into his handsome face, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy. His hands are hot on his waist, but gentle. The lizard pulls itself up Shuuichi’s jaw, trails across his cheek. Seiji lays his palm on his face, covering the youkai, and Shuuichi flinches, violently, from his touch.

Seiji stands abruptly, untangling their limbs through sheer force. He’s sure his clothes are a mess, but he won’t deign himself to tidy his appearance. For a moment Shuuichi stares up at him, stunned.

“I take it we’re done here?” Seiji says, as loftily as he can manage. Shuuichi scrambles to his feet, scowling and hastily straightening his clothes. Seiji feels a satisfied twist in his gut at the sight.

“Fine,” Shuuichi says, flushing furiously.

They walk to the front gate in silence, a sullen twist to Shuuichi’s mouth, Seiji’s hands unconscious fists at his sides. The summer sun dwindles low in the sky, staining the horizon the colour of dried blood, the colour of Shuuichi’s eyes. Seiji cannot quite remember why he is angry.

At the gate Shuuichi turns towards Seiji with obvious reluctance, his shoulders stiff, his hands stuffed into his pockets, out of reach. Seiji leans in, quick as a viper, and kisses him, barely more than a brush of their lips. Shuuichi blinks at him.

“That was fun,” Seiji says, breezily, “Let’s do it again sometime,”

Shuuichi rolls his eyes, but he can’t quite conceal the pleased lift to his lips. “Whatever,” he says, “Goodnight,”

**confession**

Theoretically, they’re tracking a youkai with a bounty out on it, though they’ve had no luck for days. What they’re really doing—though neither will admit it aloud, and Seiji not to himself until time has diluted the memory—is spending time together. Learning one another.

The old trees loom above them, branches thick enough to support the weight of dozens of youkai who watch their passing. The smaller trees and plants flourish pale green buds, fresh spring growth. Seiji has his collapsible bow slung over one shoulder, a familiar weight. Shuuichi has a familiar scowl on his handsome face, a flimsy wall between them.

Seiji feels almost as if something is stalking them through the trees, not a spirit but something unseen, something that presses down on his chest, crushes his ribs. A feeling that wakes him at night. It makes him prickly, jumpy.

The promise of summer hovers in the sweat collecting in the hollow of Shuuichi's throat, a sheen on tanned skin Seiji’s mouth waters to taste. Shuuichi looks at him from under long lashes and Seiji is pulled, as always, to look into his eyes but he resists, casts his gaze across the spring growth among the trees.

“So you’re in the archery club?” Shuuichi asks, blithely, gesturing in the corner of his vision towards Seiji’s bow.

“No,” Seiji says, staring down a mid-sized youkai lurking in the underbrush.

“Where’d you learn to shoot then?” Shuuichi asks, his voice sharp around the edges. Exasperated. Seiji makes what he hopes is a threatening flicking gesture at the youkai, which startles.

“My instructor taught me,” he says, watching the youkai scurry away with narrowed eyes.

“So, what? It’s a Matoba thing?”

Seiji turns to Shuuichi, who immediately looks away, but not fast enough. Seiji still catches the glare of his burgundy eyes behind his glasses.

“Hmm, archery? Not particularly,”

Shuuichi makes a vague, angry sound. His feet crunch in the dead litter of the forest as he speeds up to walk ahead of him. Seiji admires the line of his shoulders, the way the shirt hangs off his back, the tuft of golden hair down his neck.

“Are _you_ in a club?” Seiji asks, shielding his curiousity in a thick layer of insulating blandness. Shuuichi’s back goes tense, then releases. He turns abruptly to look over one shoulder, forcing Seiji to choose between turning his head to deny that he was staring or let himself be caught in the act.

Shuuichi chose to hide. Seiji lets him catch the way his eyes draw up his back.

“Theatre,” Shuuichi says, shortly. Seiji blinks in surprise.

“Why?” He demands. Shuuichi’s brow lifts momentarily, before he turns back to face the path.

“Why not?”

It’s an unsatisfactory answer, but Seiji can tell Shuuichi knows that. He hums mildly in response, a habit he knows bothers the other boy. He doesn’t want to fight but he can’t help it, annoying Shuuichi is like soothing an itch. Sometimes he does it without even meaning to—a single word, a thoughtless gesture, brings a flush of anger to Shuuichi’s handsome face. A conversation ruined, without really understanding why.

Seiji takes a few long strides, bringing them even again on the path. He leans his side into the other boy’s, lets their arms brush. Shuuichi looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Are you going to be in a play, then?” Seiji asks.

“That’s kind of the point,” Shuuichi replies, dry and sharp. Seiji smiles without showing his teeth.

“I’d like to see it,” he says, as genuinely as he can. Shuuichi frowns at him. Maybe being sincere is harder than Seiji thought.

“Why would you do that?”

“To watch you,” Seiji says. Shuuichi snorts but Seiji barrels on, a smile pulling on his lips, “I like watching you,”

Shuuichi makes a complicated face at him and his fingers close around Seiji’s wrist, his skin as hot as a brand. Seiji stops walking abruptly, startled at the touch, and Shuuichi stops with him.

Surely he can feel the way Seiji’s pulse thunders at his touch? His heart races, his body shooting off excited electric signals. _It’s just a touch_ , Seiji scolds himself, _you’ve been touched before!_ All he can think of is the way Shuuichi ghosted his knuckles down Seiji’s cheek, the week before. How he so desperately wants him to do it again.

Shuuichi’s grip on his wrist is light but undeniable. His eyes are bright on Seiji’s face.

“There’s no one like you,” Shuuichi says. Seiji opens his mouth to speak then shuts it. He can tell this is one of those things he will ruin with a single word. He tips his head and stares at the older boy. _Yes, that’s the issue, isn’t it?_ The words crowd behind his teeth. But Shuuichi says it like it’s a gift, like it’s unbearable. Like he’ll never say these things to someone else.

Shuuichi steps in close, his fingers tightening around Seiji’s wrist like a vice. Seiji watches him approach, apprehensive and hungry, both wanting and fearing his touch.

Shuuichi ghosts his lips across the planes of Seiji’s face, his breath hot against his skin. Seiji’s eyes flutter closed, unconscious, and Shuuichi touches his lips, softly, sweetly, to the lid of his right eye.

**time**

They stand in the doorway to Shuuichi’s bedroom, both studiously refusing to look at the bed, its white sheets, rumpled, slightly, around the ghost of Shuuichi’s sleeping body. Shuuichi is holding a towel in one hand like he’s never seen one before.

 _Come to mine_ , Shuuichi had said, _we can dry off_. The rain thunders on the roof, smears the view out the window into a wash of greys. Their school jackets, ruined by the sudden downpour, hang in the bathroom to dry.

Shuuichi sits down on the floor, his back almost touching the side of his bed. A western style bed, stubborn in an old, traditional house. Seiji sits at an angle from him, as if separated by an invisible table.

Shuuichi took off his rain-dampened socks and his foot, curled beneath his leg, looks shockingly pale. Seiji imagines that his thumb would fit perfectly under the knob of his ankle bone, imagines skin warm and soft and untouched.

“Do you want… tea?” Shuuichi says, awkwardly. Seiji stares at his chest, where his soaked shirt clings to his skin, translucent. His collarbone just out, sharp, leaves a hollow the size and shape of Seiji’s mouth.

“No,” he replies, mouth dry. Shuuichi turns to him and it’s a relief to see the heat in his eyes, the blood in his cheeks. Their eyes catch and it’s a moment of recognition, of relief. _You feel this way too_.

“Seiji,” Shuuichi says. Seiji’s heart lurches against his ribs. His name is perfect in Shuuichi’s mouth, the rasp of his breath, the helpless way he says it, like he’s losing a long war against himself. Seiji’s hands are shaking as he leans forward and bites his name from Shuuichi’s lips.

Shuuichi’s fingers tangle in the knots of Seiji’s wet hair, yanking him closer, his tongue greedy in his mouth. All of him feels hot where they touch; mouths, hands, the rough skin of their chins, the taut tendons in Shuuichi’s neck, the throb of his pulse just under his jaw, hot and urgent against the pad of Seiji’s finger.

Shuuichi pulls Seiji onto his lap and Seiji’s whole body flushes hot. They’ve kissed so many times since the first, stolen moments in the forest, greedy touches barely out of sight. But Seiji has thought about Shuuichi hauling him onto his lap, his hands large and hot on his waist, his face turned up to Seiji’s like a flower facing the sun. Seiji has wanted it, so badly, to be pressed together like that again, but hasn’t asked—could not ask.

His trousers catch, damp, against his thighs as he straddles Shuuichi, presses a hand to that wet v of fabric over his chest, feels the heat of his skin, the press of his heart. Seiji licks messily into his mouth, greedy for his taste, for his heat. Shuuichi makes a small noise in the back of his throat.

“You’re so hard,” Shuuichi murmurs, his lips hot against Seiji’s jaw. Seiji flushes and squirms. Shuuichi’s hands tighten on his waist, pull him in flush and grinds his hips up against him. Seiji gasps as a shock of heat floods his body. Shuuichi kisses him and Seiji finds himself responding greedily, threading his hands through his golden hair, licking into him sloppily. Shuuichi moves their bodies together, his hands pulling Seiji’s hips in to meet his own, a delicious friction that coils hot and tight around the base of Seiji’s spine.

“Could you come like this?” Shuuichi asks, gasping, as he pulls back to look at him. A bolt of embarrassment, hot and uncomfortable, shoots through Seiji and he blushes.

“I wanna see,” Shuuichi says, “Will you show me?”

Seiji has to bite back a whimper as the hot prickle of humiliation blends into pleasure, a swamping heat in his veins. He buries his face in the crook of Shuuichi’s neck, flustered and horny as all hell.

Shuuichi immediately stills, his grip gentling on his sides. After a moment, he asks, his voice tender, “Do you want me to stop?”

Seiji feels unbearably aware of their one year age difference, that Shuuichi is trying to be careful with him. He shakes his head, still tucked into Shuuichi’s shoulder. Shuuichi’s fingers flex on his hips.

“Do you like it?” He asks. There’s an eagerness in his voice, a barely restrained hunger, that tells Seiji that Shuuichi is unsure, too, and that he wants it as badly as Seiji does.

Seiji makes himself say, as steadily as possible, “Yes,”

Shuuichi grinds up into him and Seiji makes a soft, eager noise. His whole body feels alight, everywhere they touch electric.

“I want to see you,” Shuuichi says, his breath hot on Seiji’s ear, “Wanna watch you squirm,”

A shiver races down Seiji’s spine, a furious blush prickling his face, the back of his neck. He forces himself to sit back, Shuuichi’s eyes hot on his skin. Shuuichi starts grinding them together in earnest, shamelessly staring up at Seiji, panting.

Seiji tips his head back and closes his eyes, struggling to swallow down his reaction but it’s so _much_ , everything so _hot_. The burn of Shuuichi’s eyes on him sends bright licks of embarrassment through his chest, blurring with the hot, thick feeling coiling in his navel.

Seiji’s whole body shivers, violent shakes in his limbs, as the tightness in his navel becomes unbearable, an electric heat burning through his nerves.

“Fuck, already?” Shuuichi breathes. Seiji whimpers as a fresh wave of embarrassment prickles his skin, pushing him over the edge and he comes, dizzily, in his pants.

He’s still shivering as Shuuichi shoves a hand down the front of his own pants, touching himself with an urgency that makes Seiji’s head spin. He watches Shuuichi’s eyes screw shut, his teeth sink into his bottom lip, and Seiji closes his hand around Shuuichi’s wrist. He blinks open rust-red eyes, blown dark as he looks at Seiji.

“I want to,” Seiji rasps, “Let me touch you,”

“Seiji— _oh!_ ” Shuuichi gasps, as if he’s been struck, his hips hitch up into his hand, and his eyes screw shut as his face flushes dark, and his hand tightens in Seiji’s hair and—he’s coming, Seiji realizes with a jolt.

They stay tangled together as Shuuichi comes down, Seiji thumbing the pulse racing in his wrist, watching the subtle shift of colour in his face. His skin still sings with electricity, a deep pit of hunger yawns in his belly. He wants more, so much more, but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

Shuuichi blinks up at him and tucks a lock of his black hair behind one ear. “Do you…” Shuuichi’s voice breaks off, dry, and he has to clear his throat before speaking again, “I have clothes I could lend you,”

He gestures, vaguely, to where their bodies connect. Seiji looks away as if that will hide the red in his cheeks.

Shuuichi lends him a pair of boxers to wear home. Seiji, predictably, pathetically, never returns them.

**claim**

“I’ve never—it’s my first,” Shuuichi says, softly, blushed rosy. Seiji bites down on his knuckles, tastes the salt of his sweat. His heart hammers painfully against his ribs, his skin feels tight and hot, aching to be touched.

“Only me,” Seiji says, breathless and nonsensical, as he opens his mouth against Shuuichi’s wrist. Shuuichi makes a noise caught between gasp and moan, his hand digging into Seiji’s side, his fingers clutching at his shirt almost angrily.

“Who else?” Shuuichi gasps. Seiji smiles against his skin as if to say _who indeed?_ , then bites down.

To be the first, to be the only one to have mapped his body, traced the ridges of his spine, tasted sweat pooled on his stomach, dragged his nails down the tendons of his thighs. The first—the _only_ one to have traveled the lands of his body, to know him this way.

There's a wolf in his breast, howling with a hunger that cannot be satiated.

**taste**

Spring blooms into summer warm and humid that year, and with it a wordless intensity between them, a needy, sloppy hunger impossible to conceal from one another.

The heat of Seiji’s breath on Shuuichi’s skin; of Shuuichi’s fingers on Seiji’s cock; greedy, clumsy hands scratching, grabbing, caressing. The intimacy that blooms, damp and fragrant, between them feels like a gun held close to Seiji’s face. Impossible to look away from, intruding on his every thought. Is there a thumb on the trigger? Is it Seiji’s own hand?

Theirs is a relationship Seiji can’t quite look directly at, afraid of what he might see.

They’re loitering outside Yorishima’s front gate, Shuuichi making polite small talk with the exorcist, Seiji lingering like a bad cold. His attention keeps drifting, to the loquat tree heavy with ripe fruit, to the way Shuuichi placed his hand high on Seiji’s chest, his fingers framing his collarbone, and pressed hard as they kissed. He thinks about the sweetness of stone fruits. He thinks about the bitter taste of semen.

“We’re just passing by,” Shuuichi is saying, all innocence, in response to a question from Yorishima. The exorcist leans against the front gate, the sun seems to almost pass through him, he’s so pale.

“Natori and Matoba, just out for a summer stroll,” he says, as if he’s reciting and old nursery rhyme, or the beginning of a long, boring joke. Seiji smiles in return to his look then lets his eyes slide back to the tree, the branches heavy with fruit. He follows the patchy shadow it casts across the gate to the white of Shuuichi’s shirt, the imprint of leaves on his shoulders like a caress. Bitter. Sweet.

Shuuichi glances between Seiji and the fruit-laden branches, a strange expression on his face. He’s not really smiling, but there’s something soft about his mouth, about his eyes. “You like sweet things,” he says to him.

Seiji looks back at him blankly, trying to puzzle out his meaning, his expression. He's not used to people reciting truths about himself back to him. It's almost as if the older boy has said _I see you_. Shuuichi turns away, breaking Seiji’s focus, and looks to Yorishima.

“Your tree seems to be doing well,” Shuuichi remarks, “Could we try your loquats?”

Yorishima glances coldly to Seiji then sighs, a small sound, and plucks two loquats from the tree. His hands are large, steady, and the fruit looks small and fragile in his palm as he holds them out to Shuuichi.

“Here, get out of my hair,” he says. Shuuichi smiles charmingly as he accepts the fruit. Yorishima turns to go, “Shouldn’t you be studying, or something?”

“Or something,” Shuuichi says, grinning. The exorcist huffs. Seiji can’t help but smile, too. These old exorcists are so annoying, the way they act as if they’re too young to learn. As if age were a prerequisite for talent.

Shuuichi holds the fruit out to Seiji and simply says, “Here,”

Seiji takes the loquat from him, marvelling at the sun-warmed skin. _Oh_ , he thinks, _that’s how it is_.

It was so simple: Seiji wanted the loquat so Shuuichi gave it to him. Seiji wanted Shuuichi so Shuuichi gave himself. As casually as the fruit, the two interchangeable, the desires equivalent.

A loquat as weighty as a heart.

He watches Shuuichi eat the fruit, his lips curling in distaste. Obviously, his is unripe but he doesn’t say anything, out of respect for Yorishima, or for Seiji? Seiji, who bites into the loquat and experiences a rush of sweetness on his tongue, juice dribbling down his chin he doesn’t bother to wipe away.

 _Even such small things can go wrong,_ Seiji thinks, watching Shuuichi chew unhappily, the sun shining golden on his hair. His dried-blood eyes flicker over to Seiji, the lizard wraps around his wrist, as if to taste the juice.

“Come,” Seiji says, abruptly, “There’s an empty house just there,”

Shuuichi squints at him through his ridiculous glasses, “Trespassing, Matoba?” He asks, dryly amused.

“Never,” Seiji replies, airily, and wraps a hand around Shuuichi’s juice-sticky wrist and pulls him along.

Seiji’s only been in the Miharu house twice before; briefly with Nanase, and then a slow stroll on his own. He hurries Shuuichi through the gate and around to the side door, feeling his pulse pound against his fingers.

The old house, frankly, gives him the creeps but it’s always empty and so conveniently close. When would they ever get the chance again? Seiji leads Shuuichi to a small bedroom, wedged in behind the old kitchen. When he turns to face him, Shuuichi’s eyes are bright and hot.

There’s a lightness in knowing this, too, will probably spoil and rot. A freedom to do what he’d like while he can, to take what he wants without worrying about the consequences.

If it’ll all go to shit later, best to say it was fun while it lasted.

Seiji crowds into him, lifts Shuuichi's hand to his mouth and licks the sticky juice from his palm. Shuuichi flushes all the way up to his hairline, his breath rushing between them as Seiji laps at the soft skin, his eyes glued to Shuuichi’s. A feeling rises within him with breathless intensity, a feeling he does not know how to name, a feeling almost like violence.

“ _Seiji_ ,”

He kisses him, shoving their mouths together so fiercely Shuuichi nearly loses his balance. Seiji’s sticky hands go to his throat, feeling for his pulse, Shuuichi wraps one arm around him, pulling them flush, his other hand cradles Seiji’s jaw, his nails pressing crescent marks into his skin. A desperate groan echoes between them, rumbles in both their throats, impossible to trace to one or the other.

Shuuichi licks the juice from Seiji’s chin, drags his mouth down his throat, bites softly at the crook of his neck. Seiji gasps, his hands moving restlessly down Shuuichi’s back, around his sides, desperate for the inches of bare skin he can find—at his unbuttoned collar, at his rolled-up sleeves, at the base of his spine, where his shirt rucks up. It seems impossible that anyone has ever felt this way—that anyone has survived a desire so consuming.

“Promise me,” Shuuichi says, his breath hot against Seiji’s neck.

“Promise what?” Seiji snaps. Shuuichi withdraws so he can look into his eyes, his own expression distant, as if he could see a far off future.

“It doesn’t matter, it can be small, just promise me something,” he says. Seiji shivers and covers it with a scowl.

“I promise—" Seiji says, then hesitates. Shuuichi looks at him with kiss-bitten lips, a soft flush that brightens his eyes. He thinks of the look on his face as he chewed the loquat. Seiji is aware there is no promise he could keep and yet— “I promise to kiss no one but you,”

Shuuichi looks at him blankly for a beat, then he blinks, his expression transforming into eager hunger, flushing prettily up his ears. 

“No qualifiers?” He breathes, all in a rush. Seiji feels his face blush hotly.

“Did I stutter?” he shoots back. Shuuichi grips him by the arms and hauls him in close, claims his mouth with his own. Shuuichi’s lips move against his, impatient, and soon he’s licking into his mouth, his tongue hot and hungry against Seiji’s own. Seiji grips Shuuichi and kisses him back for all he’s worth.

“Seiji,” Shuuichi breathes against his mouth, backing him up to the wall and pressing in close. Seiji feels cornered, but for once it is a good feeling, like so long as Shuuichi held him still he’d be alright. Shuuichi groans as he moves against him and then says, “Mine. That means you’re mine,”

Seiji shivers, violently, once, but it’s enough. They’re so close Shuuichi can probably feel it with his whole body. His eyes soften. Seiji feels like he’ll fly apart, feels horny and messy and a sick tightening in his chest.

“Yeah,” Seiji says, his voice dry and bland. Shuuichi sort of smiles, with only his eyes.

“I want to be yours, too,” he says. Seiji blinks at him, confused. He can’t think straight with Shuuichi’s thigh wedged between his own, with his body pressed hot against him, with all his blood drained out of his brain and pooling below his navel.

“Alright,” he says, after a moment. Shuuichi’s face does something strange—some feeling there that Seiji can’t parse—then settles into a serious expression.

“Seiji,” he says, “I’d like to suck you off,”

Seiji doesn’t shiver only because his body is completely overwhelmed.

“Good,” he manages to say.

Seiji barely lasts any time at all, but it hardly seems fair what with Shuuichi’s hot, wet mouth, his greedy tongue and these horrible, fantastic, high sounds he makes around Seiji’s cock. Seiji crumples to the ground in front of him after he’s come and made a mess of Shuuichi’s shirt and as quickly as he can gets his hand around Shuuichi’s dick in return.

It’s wonderful and strange to have someone else in hand, but Seiji can barely manage to think it through as now Shuuichi can make those sounds unimpeded. He whines and whimpers, pitching up to a yelp as he grips Seiji’s hair and hip and thrusts up into his hand. Each sound is like a bolt of lightning through Seiji’s body. Seiji watches his face screw up with pleasure, sweaty and flushed, mouth hanging open. He could use up rolls and rolls of film trying to capture that face and never be satisfied.

Once Shuuichi comes—fingers tightening in Seiji’s hair to the point of pain—Seiji kisses him again, sloppily, plastering them together so they fall back on the floor. If climbing into Shuuichi’s lap is great, straddling him on the floor, limbs splayed out beneath him, is _fantastic_. His golden hair puddles beneath him like a squashed halo, his eyes dark and lidded and hungry, gazing up at him.

They spend the rest of the afternoon there, rolling on top of each other, wrestling their clothes off, touching everywhere with a blind greed. Seiji doesn’t trust himself to speak—sure he will ruin it, somehow, the way he can spark unexpected emotions in Shuuichi with just a word. So he keeps quiet, besides the noises Shuuichi coaxes out of him and the constant refrain of “Shuuichi, Shuuichi.”

“Can I?”

“Yes,”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I—I want you to, yes,”

He thinks about it later, he thinks about it for years; _I want to be yours, too_. The same thought, over and over, circling the drain; was he, or wasn’t he?

**lie**

Theirs had been a passion that made them awkward in innocuous situations, not knowing how to transition from moments of intense passion to innocent conversation. They had not been friends before they were lovers, so conversation came slow to mouths more used to touching, tasting. They were obvious, as subtle as a bomb. But it's only now that Seiji is embarrassed by their indiscretion, embarrassed by the transparency of their desire.

They stand together, locked in the western room of the Miharu house, years later, only metres from that room where they once were caught up in lust, in longing, in the feel of each other’s body. Seiji can barely think beyond the way sweat grabs Shuuichi’s shirt tight to his skin, high on his chest, just below his collarbone. Shuuichi doesn’t even look at him as he asks the question;

“Have you ever thought about retiring?”

“No,” Seiji says. The word is light on his tongue, easy in his mouth. He doesn’t look at Shuuichi until he starts choking on his own breath.

It’s more satisfying than Seiji is sure it should be, watching Shuuichi struggle to breathe while Seiji is unharmed. For a moment he thinks he would let the whole Miharu welcoming go to shit, just to watch Shuuichi suffocate.

But it’s only a passing fancy. 

**reunion**

In the garden, after, Shuuichi stands just within arm’s reach and says, low,

“I think of it sometimes, still. I think of you,” his eyes search Seiji’s for meaning but he keeps his expression meticulously blank. Shuuichi ventures, cautiously, “Do you?”

It’s late spring, early summer, the sky clear, the air warm and thick against Seiji’s face. He wonders if he counted back the years whether he'd find that it's the exact day they were here last.

“Shuuichi,” Seiji says. If this is a weakness, then fine. Seiji will master it somehow.

Shuuichi smiles and it’s just as he remembers it, the stretch of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes. Seiji looks at him with one eye and thinks, maybe they haven’t changed so much, after all.

He can still see that the hollow at the base of Shuuichi’s throat would fit his mouth exactly, he imagines that his thumb would still press below his ankle bone perfectly, he is sure that Shuuichi’s hands would still be greedy and hot on his skin.

**2**

As they leave Shuuichi turns to Seiji and presses a slip of paper into his palm. His fingers are warm, and Seiji thinks, irresistibly, of all the places those hands have touched.

Shuuichi says, “Seiji,” very, very softly.

Seiji cocks his head at him, “Don’t you think you should follow your own advice and stay away?”

Shuuichi looks at him strangely and then looks away, as if embarrassed. “You know I could never—"

Seiji watches him chew over his words and then turn suddenly on his heel and walk away. Shuuichi—embarrassed? He had always been shameless. Seiji looks down at his hand and unfurls his fist. A crumpled piece of paper, an address in Shuuichi’s neat handwriting.

Well. Still shameless, then.

**promise**

Seiji arrives at the condo during the full blush of sunset, the whitewashed building burning pink-orange. Shuuichi answers at the first ring.

“It’s me,” Seiji says. There’s a long silence, the phone line buzzing between them.

“Please come up,” Shuuichi says, his voice tinny and breathless, and the doors unlock with a click.

Seiji isn’t sure what he expected the apartment to look like, but he thinks the barren, white space suits Shuuichi. All flash, no substance. Shuuichi invites him inside politely, mutters something unimportant about tea, and gestures for Seiji to sit on the monstrous white couch.

The dimming sun flashes a square of orange against one wall, the only colour in the room. Seiji notices that it’s a nearly exact shade match for a ripe loquat and smiles to himself. 

Seiji sits on the couch and, unbelievably, Shuuichi kneels at his feet. He looks up at him with calm, warm eyes.

“Seiji,” he says and Seiji shivers.

“Did you try the loquats?” Seiji asks. He keeps his hands folded neatly on his lap. Shuuichi blinks owlishly up at him.

“Yes, I did,”

“And? Better than the first?” Seiji asks. A corner of Shuuichi’s mouth lifts,

“Sweeter, yes,” he says, “but I think I preferred the first,”

Seiji cocks a brow and says, dryly, “How like you, to make things difficult,”

Shuuichi grins, “Seiji, touch me, please,”

For a moment Seiji can’t breathe. His heart slams against his ribs, a rush of blood pounds in his ears. Numbly, he lifts his hands and cradles Shuuichi’s face, who sighs and leans into his touch. A faint shiver runs up Seiji’s arms.

“Have you kept your promise?” Shuuichi asks, his eyes warm pools in his golden face.

Seiji blinks, surprised, then feels a smile pull at his lips. He looks down at Shuuichi, amused at the both of them.

“Yes,” he says, simply. Shuuichi stares at him, a faint flush brightening his face. The lizard runs laps around his neck. “And you?”

As expected, Shuuichi looks away, faintly embarrassed, obviously regretful.

“There have been others I’ve...” Shuuichi trails off, uncomfortable. Seiji feels none of the bitterness Shuuichi expects from him.

Seiji hums in reply, just to twist the knife in Shuuichi’s breast. He catches the edge of a wince in his expression, still directed towards the floor. Seiji forces his chin up, Shuuichi frowns at him.

“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me,” Seiji says lightly and rubs one thumb across Shuuichi’s cheekbone. Shuuichi’s expression clears, then clouds with a strange intensity.

“You—there’s never been anyone like you,” he says, breathlessly. He swallows, fumbling, visibly, with his own honesty, “There’s just you,”

A faint shiver rushes through Seiji, who can feel the smile bloom large on his mouth. Shuuichi pushes forward between his knees, his hands hot and large on Seiji’s thighs, and lifts his face to Seiji’s, eyes lidded, sweet in his vulnerability. Seiji cups his face, running one hand up into his hair, holds him still as he tilts his face down to meet his.

They break apart after an age, their breath humid between them. Seiji tilts his forehead into Shuuichi’s, watches the blurry flicker of his eyelashes.

“Mine,” Seiji says. It’s not a question and yet—

“Yours,” Shuuichi confirms.

It’s difficult to say whether or not this latest truce will waft away under the heat of the morning sun. They’re too similar; they’re too different. But this will stay with them; this lust, this longing. This surety that they will come back together, like the tides to the shore. They will always belong, to this feeling, to each other.

_Mine. Yours._

Ours.


End file.
